


Jeremy

by supercasey



Series: Team Fortress 2 One-Shots [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Brother-Brother Relationship, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Confessions, F/M, Family Bonding, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Mercenaries, Mother-Son Relationship, Near Death Experiences, Self-Doubt, Team Bonding, Trans Male Character, Trans Scout, Transphobia, War, no room for toxic masculinity in this house; we have our favs hug each other and be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercasey/pseuds/supercasey
Summary: Some trans people choose their own names, and some prefer to let their parents choose a new one for them. However, when the parent that chose your name the first time is absent from your life, sometimes you have to put a name together from whatever they left behind. How Scout got his name, and met the man who gave it to him.
Relationships: Demoman & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Engineer & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Scout & Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout's Mother & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Scout's Mother/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Series: Team Fortress 2 One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689592
Comments: 27
Kudos: 135





	Jeremy

**Author's Note:**

> This is late for Trans Day of Visibility, but I wanted to write a short fic for TF2- specifically Spy!dad and Trans!Scout- because this game’s characters are my new hyperfixation. Luckily for everyone else who follows me on Tumblr and has no idea wtf I’m doing writing for TF2, I’ve no intention of doing yet another long fic for a new hyperfixation, so here’s this self-indulgent nonsense. Btw, I have no idea how to write accents outside of British and Southern ones, so I apologize in advance for however this shitfest turns out. Please enjoy!

“Hey, Ma.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Why’d ya name me F****?”

F**** is twelve years old when she asks her mother this question. It’s early August, and most of F****’s big siblings are out running wild in the southend of Boston, making good on their threats against any gangs that try to move into their neighborhood. F**** wanted to go with them, of course, but her brothers had dismissed her as they usually do, on the grounds that “little ladies” like herself wouldn’t have much fun chasing girls, sneaking beers, and all busting heads open on the concrete. So here F**** is, stuck inside with her dear mother, the windows all wide open to let in more air, due to just how hot it is today; although Ma rolls her eyes and scoffs when she’s reminded of the fact that her son Jacob cut a hole in the kitchen’s window wiring, on the grounds that the house got too hot during the summer, F**** can’t help but be grateful for the extra circulation, so much so that she sits in a chair directly next to the hole, not caring if mosquitoes get in and bite her. Upon hearing her only daughter’s question, Ma wipes off her hands with a hand towel, taking a break from washing dishes to lean against the nearest counter, her expression suggesting she’s in dire need of a cigarette break.

“Why ya wanna know, sweetpea?” Ma asks, wearing an easy-going smile on her face; most strangers tell F**** that her mom looks beautiful, but F**** just sees her all powerful mother.

“Well… I dunno,” F**** lies, looking away sheepishly as she scratches at the back of her head, silently hating how long her hair’s getting. Maybe when the boys get back, she’ll ask Patrick if he’ll cut her hair for her, on the off chance that he cuts it extra short again. “Guess I always wondered, since F**** ain’t exactly a common name ‘round here.”

Ma nods, understanding F****’s question completely. “Yeah, that was bound to happen… your papa ‘n I didn’t really account for you growin’ up as the only F***** around, but hey, at least it makes ya more unique, compared to the other girls at school,” She pauses to pull out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a few puffs. “Ya know how I told ya that your papa speaks French as his first language, ‘n that’s why I had ya learn it as a toddler?” When F**** nods, Ma continues. “Well, in French, F**** means flower, as ya already know, ‘n seein’ as he always liked referring to me as his lil’ flower… I dunno, it just fit to call ya that. ‘Sides, your papa was so dead set on naming you, I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a weird name for a girl from Boston.”

“Oh,” F**** says, giving her bare feet a sad, contemplative look. “So… what would you ‘n Pa have named me if I had, I dunno, been born a boy instead of a girl?” She hopes it’s an innocuous enough question, aware that girls like her shouldn’t ask these sorts of things, that girls like her that aren’t even girls should hide it at all costs, and yet… well, F**** has never been one for hiding anything, especially not her feelings.

Luckily for her, Ma isn’t the least bit suspicious. “I always wondered when you’d ask me this… I’ve had so many boys, I’ve named ‘em everythin’ I ever liked, so I told your papa that if you were a boy, he had to name ya, which I guess is why he got so excited about namin’ ya to begin with,” She takes another puff of her cigarette, chuckling under her breath at some unnamed memory. “I’m sure ya papa would’ve been relieved to know ya were a girl, since he couldn’t come up with fuck all when it came to boy names. Still, there was one name in particular he  _ really  _ liked, and it  _ absolutely  _ woulda been your name.”

“Oh yeah? What was it, Mama?” F**** is on the edge of her seat, eager to hear what she always wanted her name to be.

“Jeremy,” Ma answers simply, grinning all the while. “He never did say why he liked it so much, just said it was a good name for a good boy,” She laughs again at that, shaking her head. “He shoulda known that no boy that’s ever come outta me has been good… for christ’s sake, he helped me watch ‘em while you were cookin’!”

F**** doesn’t pay much attention to that last part, fixated still on the name. “Jeremy? Seriously? Jesus, Ma, what was Pa  _ smokin’? _ Jeremy sounds like the name of the teacher’s pet; no, wait, the teacher’s _ cocksleeve!” _

“Ey, watch it!” Ma snaps; she’s usually pretty lenient on cursing, something that was more or less necessary when raising so many boys, but she still has her limits. “Christ, F****, you’re startin’ to sound like your fuckin’ brothers, sayin’ shit like that…” With that, she returns to washing the dishes, otherwise she knows she’ll have a small village’s worth by the end of the day.

Unbeknownst to Ma, F**** looks away and smiles, taking a lot more pride in that insult than her mother ever needs to know.

* * *

“Why can’t I come?” F**** asks, at fourteen years old, glaring daggers at her older brother. “Ya know I’m the best shot in this house, Mal! Come on, you’d be a dumbass not to bring me!”

Malcolm, who’s seventeen and unimpressed with his baby sister’s complaints, laughs in her face without any sense of fear. “‘Cus you’re a fuckin’ _ girl,  _ dumbass, and this is more than just shootin’ cans off ‘a fences,” He explains, before a slight softness fills his eyes. “Trust me, lil’ sis, you don’t wanna fight like we do… why don’t ya go chill with Ma, alright? Maybe make us somethin’ nice for di-” He doesn’t get to finish.

F**** socks him dead in the jaw, knocking the older teen on his ass. The surrounding boys, ranging from about sixteen to twenty-five, all whoop and holler at the display, laughing their asses off at the spectacle. F**** wears a satisfied grin, feeling righteous after getting a good hit on her big brother. However, the victory isn’t savored for very long, as moments later, Ma comes running at the sound of what she knows to be a fight.

“The hell happened in here; I thought y’all were goin’ out for a street fight, not a house fight!” Ma yells, eyes darting between Malcolm and F****, the look on her face suggesting she’s shocked it’s not F**** who’s on the floor. “Somebody betta tell me what jus’ happened, or all you lil’ shits are gonna be in trouble.”

“F**** punched Mal in the jaw for bein’ a smartass,” Curtis, the resident tattletale and only a few years older than F****, has no problem with telling Ma what happened. “You shoulda seen it, Ma; Mal was tellin’ F**** to get in the kitchen, ‘n she knocked him on his ass for it!”

“Snitch.” F**** says out of courtesy, though she’s a little proud of how Curtis told the story.

Ma let’s out a mighty sigh, making her sound older than she is. “Malcolm, you sure as fuck know betta than to make comments like that under my roof, ‘specially when I’m bustin’ my ass every fuckin’ day to take care of you and your siblings; you say somethin’ stupid like that again, and you’ll  _ wish  _ F**** had heard it instead of me,” As her sons all snicker at this, she turns to her only daughter. “F****, sweetie,” She says, her tone changing enough to make F**** wince, as instead of being angry, she sounds almost concerned, which is almost as bad as pity. “I  _ know  _ you don’t like it, doll, but your brothers are right; you’re too small ‘n sweet to be gettin’ mixed up with the gangs ‘round here. I know you’re a tough lil’ girl, but  _ please, _ honey… ya gotta  _ stop  _ with this bullshit. Sooner ‘r later, you’re gonna get yourself real hurt out there.”

F**** grits her teeth, a seething rage building up in her chest. She’s heard this monologue over a thousand fucking times, hearing it every time she gives her brothers a piece of their own medicine, every time she gets a dress or skirt dirty, every time she skips school to play games at the arcade; little girls shouldn’t be acting out like F**** does, and yet, she can’t bring herself to stop doing so. F**** knows, deep down inside, that she isn’t  _ just  _ not like other girls… she was never one to begin with, and no one can ever find out. Ever since she was around ten or so, F****’s been feeling and less and less like the girls at school, and more and more like the brothers she’s surrounded by. And yet, even if she was an only child and didn’t have any male influences, F**** is pretty sure she’d still be a boy, further proving to her that this isn’t a side-effect of having a lot of brothers. Nonetheless, F**** is smart enough to simply bite her lower lip and nod, not wanting to risk shouting at her Ma and getting in even  _ more  _ trouble.

Ma seems satisfied with that, giving her other kids an unimpressed glance. “What’re y’all still standin’ around gawkin’ for, huh? Go on outside and screw around, you’re not doin’ any good just standin’ there like a bunch of seagulls!” She waves them towards the front door, not wanting the group of boys underfoot.

At that, the pack of boys make a mad dash for the door, already shouting plans on how to get back at the Backstreet Snakes for tipping over their mother’s trash cans last night. When F**** goes to follow, Malcolm finally makes it to his feet, and lays a hand on his little sister’s chest, but then pulls back, not wanting to accidentally touch her breasts. “You stay here, runt,” He orders through grit teeth, and his eyes easily convey how badly he wants to clobber F****, but seeing as she’s just a stupid little girl in his eyes… “Ma’s right, sis; you’re lucky to have been born a girl, whether you realize it or not.” With that, he follows after his brothers, leaving F**** to eat their dust.

F**** glares stubbornly at the door, feeling Ma’s eyes lingering on her back. “You wanna watch TV with me ‘r somethin’, baby girl?” She asks, trying to offer her daughter something to do.

F**** fights back a growl, still glowering at the door. “Naw,” She says, struggling not to let her mother hear how angry she really is. “I’mma go out; I’ll be back before dark. Love ya, Ma.” She doesn’t wait for Ma’s permission, quick to grab her baseball bat and hat, intent on going to the park and playing ball for a few hours in order to take her frustration out on something.

Ma just sighs, shaking her head in defeat as her youngest goes running, likely wondering where on earth she went wrong. F****, in the meantime, doesn’t let herself feel any guilt, knowing all the while that she can’t help being the way she is.

* * *

“You  _ gotta  _ tell Mom, F****,” Timmy whispers in a somewhat frantic tone of voice, as if he’s holding a live bomb and not his little sister’s diary. “What the fuck does all of this  _ mean? _ Seriously, what’s a trans boy? Why did ya write th-”

F**** snatches the book out of Timmy’s hands, but not before slapping him across the face with her other hand for good measure. It’s three in the morning, and they’re the only ones awake, so she isn’t afraid of getting in trouble for this. “Don’t touch my  _ fuckin’  _ stuff, Timmy,” She orders, glaring angrily at her second to oldest brother. “It’s none of your fuckin’ business what it means, you got that? You touch my shit again, and I swear, I’mma bust your ass worse than Ma  _ ever  _ could!”

“F****,” Timmy says softly, trying a less aggressive approach this time. Gently, he lays a hand on the sixteen year old’s shoulder, his eyes pleading. “F****… sis, what is going  _ on? _ You can trust me. You know that, right?”

“How the  _ fuck  _ can I trust the jackass who just went through my fuckin’ journal, huh?” F**** asks, very purposefully not calling the book a diary, as it sounds too childish.

“Because most folk would be shoutin’ slurs ‘n beatin’ ya to death by now, wiseguy,” Timmy points out, not pulling any punches here, as he needs F**** to understand the seriousness of the situation. “Now stop actin’ difficult and tell me what’s goin’ on, F****. I  _ promise  _ I won’t freak out, okay?”

F**** huffs, eyes darting between Timmy and the doorway leading down the nearest hallway, then the doorway leading downstairs. She holds up a finger to Timmy, signaling for him to wait for her, before she steps out of the kitchen to check the living room, then the staircase leading upstairs. All clear, as far as she can tell. F**** breathes a sigh of relief, then returns to Timmy’s side, only to grab him by the wrist and drag him downstairs towards her room. Luckily for F****, only she, Timmy, and Grant have bedrooms downstairs, and seeing as Grant lives with his fiance, it’s safer to talk down here than in the kitchen, where any of their brothers could walk in on or overhear them. F**** goes to take Timmy to her room as planned, but Timmy pulls back, practically dragging the teenager to his old bedroom. F**** doesn’t bother arguing, allowing the boy to take her inside. Once there, she plops herself down on Timmy’s empty bed, while Timmy sits in his desk chair, putting his hands in his lap as he patiently awaits an explanation, and judging by his expression, he’s willing to wait all night if he has to.

“Okay, so like…” F**** trails off, not sure where to even start. “I think… no, I  _ know  _ I’m a boy,” She may as well just say it, seeing as she already knows that Timmy assumes this is the case, if his reaction to her diary is anything to go off of. “To be honest, I’ve known I’m a boy for about six years now. But I knew… I  _ knew  _ people wouldn’t take it well, so I’ve hidden it from everyone, even Ma. The older I get though, the more fuckin’  _ unbearable  _ everything gets, and I just… goddammit, Timmy, I wish I’d never been  _ fuckin’  _ born!” In a fit of rage, F**** grabs fistfuls of her hair, tempted to yank it all out.

“Whoa whoa whoa, easy there, junior,” Timmy says, and for the first time tonight, F**** is grateful that of all her siblings to find out her secret, it was Timothy, as he’s probably the least violent and reckless of all her brothers… which isn’t saying much, but he’s still a saint compared to Malcolm and Jacob. Although he still seems confused, Timmy stands up, sits on the bed beside F****, and in a rare display of affection, he hugs his little sister with all his might. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy… I promise, it’ll be okay. I love you, and so does everyone else in this fuckin’ house.” He whispers, the honesty in his voice soul crushing.

F**** is dangerously close to crying, biting her lip so hard it bleeds. “No they fuckin’ don’t… at least, they don’t love me for who I am, and they never will,” She whispers, angry and terrified at the same time. “The fuck am I supposed to  _ do, _ Tim? Seriously, what the  _ fuck  _ do I do? Bein’ a girl, it’s torture! I already told my friends at school ‘bout this shit, but they said… they said I only think that ‘cus I’ve got so many brothers, and that I’d feel better if I had a sister ‘r two, but it’s not true! Even if all of you guys were gals, I  _ still  _ think I’d be a boy, ‘cus it’s just who I am! It’s not just ‘cus I like baseball, or ‘cus I think fightin’ is awesome, or ‘cus I’m a damn good shot with Grant’s revolver, ‘r ‘cus I like gettin’ dirty! It’s cheesy, and probably the stupidest shit ya ever heard, but I… I feel like a boy, and not like a girl. That probably don’t make any fuckin’ sense to you, but it’s the only way I know how to say it.”

“That’s okay,” Timmy assures, now gently rubbing circles into F****’s back. “Not everythin’ about us makes sense, especially shit like… well,  _ this,” _ He then pulls back, let’s out a long, tired sigh, and finally, he locks eyes with F**** again, and for the first time in her life, F**** sees Timmy start to silently cry. “F****… can I tell you a secret? You gotta promise not to tell nobody unless I tell you ya can, okay?”

F**** nods in earnest, eyes wide with surprise. “Uh, yeah, sure thing, Tim.” She says, not really understanding what Timmy is getting at. Why isn’t he attacking her for being weird? Why does he look so wigged out, but not in a way that suggests it’s directed at her?

Timmy takes another deep breath. “Okay… F****, the truth is… I like guys,” He says it so quietly, it’s a good thing the house is dead silent right now, or F**** wouldn’t have heard him. “Hell, I don’t just  _ like  _ dudes, I… I’m in  _ love  _ with one. My best friend, to be exact,” His eyes aren’t even on F**** anymore, glued to something across the room, where there’s a framed photograph of him and his best friend Duke Hammond in front of a lake, the two of them grinning at the camera like fools. “In a few years, once we’ve saved up enough money, me ‘n him are plannin’ on drivin’ to California, where guys like us aren’t as hated on… so, yeah, I might not understand  _ exactly  _ what’s goin’ on with you, F****, but I figure you gotta be queer like me, but in a different way. No matter what though, I fuckin’ love you, lil’ man, ‘n I always will, no matter what happens to us. You ‘n me, we’re gonna be brothers from here on out, okay? It’ll be alright, so long as we stick together.”

F**** finally loses the fight with herself, tears cascading down her face as she leaps forward, tackling Timmy in a bone-crushing hug. Wordlessly, Timmy hugs his little  _ brother  _ just as tightly. Although F**** knows that Timmy doesn’t fully understand everything that’s going on with her, she still feels some level of relief, knowing that someone else knows, so that if she dies in some stupid accident before she has the chance to leave home at eighteen, at least  _ someone  _ will have known that she was a boy.

* * *

When F**** is seventeen, Ma manages to get the whole family together for dinner.

It’s not very often that Ma gets all of her kids under one roof, what with her youngest nearing eighteen and the rest more or less living on their own, so she takes any opportunities she can to have little “family reunions” with her kids. Luckily for her, everyone’s available tonight, making the house just as lively as it was when all of her children were young kids and teenagers. For the most part, dinner goes as one might expect it to, with the twins arguing over who gets the bigger pieces of chicken, Grant struggling to keep all of his little brothers from killing each other, and Curtis staying out of everyone else’s way. However, F**** still feels a great unease in his chest, the teen constantly glancing at Timmy to check on him, but he’s acting just like he normally does… F**** knows it’s all a charade. Tonight, F**** knows that Timmy is going to come out to the family, something that makes the youngest boy so incredibly nervous, he’s afraid he’s going to piss himself he’s so scared for his big brother.

Just as Ma is getting up to grab the three pies she baked for dessert- a must when feeding nine mouths- Timmy speaks for the first time in over an hour. “So… what’re y’alls thoughts on homosexuality?” He asks, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to ask over dinner.

F**** damn near spits out his soda, but he swallows just in time, bug-eyed as he awaits the reactions of his other siblings. In all sincerity, it’s not as if this family shies away from many topics. Come to think of it, the only topics that F**** knows for certain are more or less outlawed in the house are any mention of fathers, discussion of sexual assault, and graphic sex… then again, that later topic is  _ definitely  _ talked about behind closed doors, but Ma doesn’t need to know about that anytime soon. Nervously, F**** can’t help but glance around the kitchen table, trying to read the expressions of his siblings, but as vicious and unfiltered as this group tends to be when they’re around each other, they’ve all more or less mastered the art of stoicness… save of course for F****, which is honestly really unfair. After a few seconds of silence, Malcolm finally speaks up, much to F****’s infinite gratitude.

“Ya mean, like, gay people?” Malcolm asks rather bluntly, giving Timmy a raised eyebrow. “Why ya askin’ us, bro?”

“Just curious,” Timmy lies, leaning on his elbows while giving his brothers a wide, inconspicuous smile. “So, what are your thoughts on ‘em, guys? Come on, no need to hide anythin’; we’re all family here.”

That actually gets everyone to loosen up a little, much to F****’s relief. “Eh, I don’t see nothin’ wrong with ‘em,” Grant, the oldest of the bunch, answers honestly, arms coming to rest behind his head as he leans back, looking more relaxed than anyone else here. “To each their own, ya know? Personally, I prefer gals over guys, but again, ain’t any ‘a my business who screws who.”

The twins, Arthur and Jacob, nod in a rare moment of agreement. “Yeah, gay people are cool,” Jacob says, as if he’s talking about hippies and not people with a different sexuality. “I know a lesbian on campus, ‘n she and her girlfriend are funny as shit!”

“What was her girl’s name again? Tinkerbell?” Arthur asks, scratching his beard in deep thought; he takes a lot of pride in his beard, seeing as it’s the one thing his babyfaced twin can’t ever hope to have. “Whatever it was, it was a weird one.”

“Dumbass, her name’s  _ Annabell, _ not fuckin’  _ Tinkerbell!” _ Jacob corrects, smacking his brother upside the head for his ignorance. “Jesus fuck,  _ Tinkerbell!? _ You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Ey, there’s no need to hit each other, boys,” Ma assures, coming back into the dining area with her arms full of pies. She sets them down on the table, giving Grant a raised eyebrow when she sees how quiet it’s gotten. “What were you kids talkin’ about, huh? Sounded like y’all were finally gettin’ along… ya know, before the twins were at it again.”

Curtis chimes in for Grant, if only to add his own two cents to the conversation. “We were talkin’ ‘bout gay rights, Ma,” He says, not even trying to hide it from her. “So what do ya think, Mom? Do  _ you  _ support ‘em?”

“Well, I’d be a fuckin’ bitch of a sister not to, love,” Ma explains, smiling as she dusts off her apron. “You know your Auntie Moira, right? She’s a lesbian. Didn’t I tell you kids this sooner? I coulda  _ sworn  _ she was over a few years back for Christmas, but I can’t remember the last time I even called her, seein’ as she travels so much for work. Did you kids even know she was married to her wife?”

“NO!” Everyone shouts, wide-eyed as they gape at their mother.

“Aunt Moira’s  _ gay!?” _ Grant repeats, well and truly shocked. “Since  _ when?” _

“Since she was _born,_ honey,” Ma says, chuckling at her children’s reactions. “What’re y’all so surprised for, huh? You know, bein’ queer ain’t exactly uncommon these days… hell, for all we know, one of  _ you  _ kids could be queer!”

Immediately, F**** and Timmy go dead quiet, while everyone else just laughs and laughs, as if this is some big joke. In the meantime, F**** gives Timmy a worried look, not sure what to do, only to see Timmy coughing into his sleeve. “Um… funny you should mention that, Ma,” Timmy mutters, looking unbelievably awkward despite how much safer this environment now appears to him. “‘Cus I’m, uh… I’m gay, Mom.”

Everyone freezes in place, simply  _ staring  _ at Timmy. Ma blinks, shell-shocked by the admission, even after admitting that her sister is queer. “You’re… you’re  _ gay, _ Timmy?”

“Uh, yeah, I am,” Timmy repeats, sheepish as he awkwardly scratches at the back of his head, appearing almost out of place. “And I’m, uh… I’m actually datin’ somebody. Duke Hammond, to be specific.”

Again, it’s quiet. While everyone murmurs amongst themselves, Ma finally notices how quiet her only daughter has been. “F****, honey, what’s wrong?” She asks, easily catching how red F****’s face has become. “Ya haven’t said a word all night, baby girl… somethin’ botherin’ ya?”

“It’s, um… it’s nothin’, Mama.” F**** lies, even as tears start cascading down his face.

“F****?” Malcolm joins in, his eyes full of worry for his baby sister. “Sis, what’s wrong? Why’re you cryin’? Are you mad that Timmy’s gay, lil’ buddy?”

“No, she isn’t upset about _ that,” _ Timmy promises, gently laying an arm across F****’s shoulders to steady him. “I already told her a few months back. It’s just that…” He trails off, eyes coming to rest on F****’s wet face. He leans down, whispering so only F**** can hear him. “Do you wanna tell ‘em, bro? I think it’ll be okay if you do. If it isn’t, we’ll walk out ‘n you can live with me ‘n Duke… it’s up to you, lil’ bro.”

F**** swallows nervously, giving a weak head shake. “I… I can do it,” He assures, yet his voice doesn’t carry that much weight. “Um, guys?” He raises his voice so that everyone can hear him, waiting until it’s dead quiet to speak again. “So, Timmy… ain’t the  _ only  _ queer one. I dunno how else to say this, but… I’m a boy.”

As expected, it stays quiet for even longer this time, the pies long since cold. “You’re a  _ boy?” _ Jacob repeats, sounding flabbergasted. “But  _ how? _ You have a pussy, don’t ya?”

F**** blushes, feeling sick all over again. “Uh, yeah, but… I’ve never  _ felt  _ like a girl, ya know? Bein’ a boy just makes more sense to me.”

Curtis grimaces, unconvinced. “Okay,  _ Timmy  _ I could buy being gay, but  _ you  _ bein’ a  _ boy?  _ No way, you’re our baby sister!” He insists, almost as if he thinks F**** is lying to him. “Come on, F****, you probably only think that ‘cus you don’t got many girls to look up to, am I right? You ain’t a boy!”

“Is that even  _ possible? _ To be born a girl, but then decide to be a boy later?” Arthur asks, tilting his head in deep thought. “I’ve never heard of nothin’ like  _ that  _ before.”

“It’s not a  _ choice, _ it’s just how F****  _ is,”  _ Timmy corrects, daring to glare at the other boys, his arm still slung around F****, as if he’s protecting his younger brother from the others. “How is this any stranger than me bein’ gay, huh?”

“Bein’ gay just means ya like boys, dude. But F**** sayin’ she  _ is  _ a boy… that’s a whole other ball game right there,” Grant explains, letting out a long sigh of fatigue. “Art’s got a point, though; is that even a  _ thing, _ or are you makin’ shit up now, sis?”

“I’m not-” Before F**** can finish, Ma finally cuts in.

“-If F****’s a boy, then F****’s a boy,” Ma states, raising her voice only so she can be heard over her sons. “Timmy’s right; y’all say you can handle him comin’ out, but you can’t handle the same thing from F****, just ‘cus you don’t know as much about it? Shame on all of you! I didn’t raise no homophobes, you got that? You got a problem with F**** or Timmy, you bring it to me, understand?” She softens a fraction, sighing. “This isn’t how I expected dessert to go tonight, but… well, it looks like Timmy and F**** have been holdin’ this all in for quite awhile, probably ‘cus they were scared of this very bullshit happenin’. So, how about y’all shape up and apologize, and either try to understand, or keep your fuckin’ mouths shut.”

“But…” Patrick pauses for a few seconds, waiting for Ma to scold him, but when she doesn’t, he continues to ask his question. “Ma, how are  _ you  _ not upset, or at least surprised? Didn’t you always  _ want  _ a daughter?”

Ma thinks on it for a few seconds, before nodding solemnly. “Yes, I  _ did  _ want a daughter. Then again, I also wanted literally  _ any  _ of your daddys to stay, but seein’ as Daddy one died, Daddy two is in fuckin’ prison for life, and Papa…” She glances at F****, then shakes her head, as if righting herself. “Well, your Mama got fuckin’ let down on that front; what’s another unexpected plottwist, huh? At least this time around, someone ain’t dead. Yeah, I’m a lil’ shocked, but this can’t be any weirder than the shit Papa told me ‘bout his life before he… ya know.”

Everyone- save for F**** and Curtis, as they were too young to remember their third father- turns to stare quietly at the table in silent mourning, reminding F**** yet again that there’s things he doesn’t know about his dad that he probably never will… but at the very least, the fact that all of his siblings mourn Papa means he was a good father, right? In any case, after that moment of silence, dessert resumes as planned, except this time, a small discussion is had in-between bites of food and roaring laughter. They all mostly joke around, if only to get off-topic, but F**** can’t say he minds that much, the uncomfortable ache in his chest lessening just enough to let him breathe properly for the first time in years. His brothers may not have taken it as well as F**** would’ve hoped, but seeing as at least Ma and Timmy are always gonna be in his corner… hell, that’s gotta mean  _ something, _ right? F**** may not know exactly what he’s doing when it comes to his identity, but so long as he’s still got his family, he wants to believe he can handle anything the world throws at him.

* * *

The day F**** turns eighteen, Ma wakes him at six in the morning to give him a large, cardboard box as a birthday present.

“Uh, Ma?” F**** is less than enthused when he’s handed the weathered old box, letting out an audible grunt upon realizing just how heavy it is. “Not that I don’t, uh,  _ love  _ surprises, but couldn’t this’ve waited until at  _ least  _ eight ‘r nine?” He then yawns, wishing he had been allowed to sleep in just a few hours longer.

“I would’ve let ya sleep, kiddo, but… well, I’ve been waiting a  _ long  _ time to give you this present, ‘n I just couldn’t wait any longer,” Ma says, and it’s only now that F**** notices that she’s been crying recently. “That box has everything your dad left behind for ya… he told me that once ya hit eighteen, he wanted ya to have everythin’ in there. Whether it’s money, pictures, ‘r even a fuckin’ gun, it’s all yours now.”

F**** feels his heart skip a beat, eyes widening as it finally sinks in. “Wait… are you for real?” He asks, shell-shocked to say the least. “I thought my dad died at war, ‘n that he didn’t leave nothin’ behind for anybody, ‘specially not me. He passed ‘fore I was born, right?”

“I lied,” Ma deadpans, as if it isn’t that big a deal. “Your papa’s still out there, son… I’m sorry I didn’t tell ya sooner, but your daddy, he… he begged me not to, not until you were at least eighteen. He didn’t want ya, I dunno, runnin’ after him until you were old enough to take care of yourself, I guess,” She then lays a hand on her youngest son’s shoulder, looking deeply into the boy’s cloudy blue eyes, her own light grey ones thoughtful and full of grief. “You’ve got his eyes, ya know. And his jawline.  _ And  _ his hair,” As if to demonstrate, she ruffles the short, unruly mess, chuckling when F**** huffs at her. “Sorry, sorry. Still, I want you to have everythin’ that’s in there, hun. I know it’s not much, but he left those things for a reason. Don’t got any clue what any ‘a that stuff is, but… I hope it’ll answer some questions for ya, sweetheart.”

F****’s tempted to say that the only reason his dad left him anything is because whatever’s in this box is utter garbage, but he smartly holds his tongue. “Okay, Ma,” He says instead, feeling unsteady now that he’s being left with this thing. “Um… thanks. For this.” He feels so awkward, unsure of what exactly he should say.

Ma just smiles at him, her expression full of love. “Of course, son… and don’t you worry none, you’ve got plenty more presents comin’ when your brothers get here later. Go ahead, take all the time you need to unpack that gift, alright? I’ll be upstairs if you need me, hun.”

After Ma walks off, F**** slips back into his room, taking extra care to close and lock the door behind himself. Once that’s taken care of, he sits cross legged on the floor, setting the box directly on the rug in front of himself. For a few long, agonizing minutes, F**** weighs his options, not sure whether or not this is even a good idea. What if this box really  _ is  _ just full of a bunch of junk, and his pops only left this shit behind because he forgot it or didn’t want it? What if F**** finds a bunch of meaningless junkmail, with no return addresses or explanations? What if he gets deadnamed non-stop, and gets overwhelmed with dysphoria? Swallowing, F**** gives up on waiting any longer, not hesitating to tear open the old box as fast as possible, accidentally ripping off one of the lid flaps in the process. Not that it matters, since F**** doubts the box itself is all that important. He tosses the lid flap aside, beginning to dig through his dead- or  _ not dead _ , apparently- father’s belongings, his heart twisting in uneasy, scared knots as he does so.

As one might expect from such a gift, F**** finds a variety of old photographs depicting his mom, his brothers when they were much younger, and… a man he doesn’t recognize. Not even realizing he’s doing so, F**** tilts his head quizzically at the photo in his hands, examining it like one of those scientists on his Ma’s favorite crime show. In the photograph, Ma is standing arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man, who appears to be at least a few years younger than her. The man has short, well-combed raven hair, which looks clean and well taken care of, and not just for the sake of getting his picture taken. The stranger is smoking in the photo, a small cigarette in his mouth that even at a glance, F**** can tell is the same brand Ma used to smoke before she quit. Finally, the man has a grey five o’clock shadow around his mouth, his smile so full of happiness and love. F**** can’t help but smile back at the stranger, noticing right away that he has the same smile as this guy. Not only that, he has his eyes, too. F**** isn’t an idiot; he knows this is his father, and yet, he can’t help but feel upset, even now that he knows the guy’s face.

Sighing, F**** goes to set the photo aside, feeling unwillingly bitter that he doesn’t have a voice to go alongside his dad’s face. However, as the picture flips over in his hand, F**** spots a long,  _ long  _ message on the back of it. F****’s eyes widen at the sight, but even just skimming through the note, he knows this can’t be all there is. In a bit of a panicked frenzy, F**** flips all the photos he’s found over, and just as he had hoped, they’re all covered in writing, but there’s no clear indication of what order they should go in. After a few minutes of sorting and reading just the last sentences of each piece, F**** begins piecing the photos together, until finally, he has a completed puzzle in front of him, depicting what the boy can only assume is his father’s last will and testament. F**** contemplates briefly on getting Ma for this, as she probably wants answers too, but in the end he doesn’t, wanting to be the first person to read his father’s letter.

_ To my future son, daughter, or child. _

_ Mon très cher enfant, if you are reading this, that means you have finally turned eighteen years old. Unfortunately for both of us, I very much doubt that I will be there for this special occasion, as while I am writing you this letter, I am preparing to go on another mission for my job. I know I will make it back, as I always do, but this time I cannot help but feel a great unease in my chest. You have yet to be born, and I’ve no idea whether you’re to be my son, my daughter, or something else entirely, but I know that no matter your fate, I love you more than life itself. Please, mon enfant, allow me to tell you a story, so that perhaps one day, even if you will not forgive me, I hope that you shall at least understand why I’m about to do what I must do. _

_ A little over two years ago, I met your dear mother, and immediately I fell in love with her. I cared not that she already had seven children of her own, I loved her so much that I, in turn, came to love them as my own as well, and more than anything, I wish that I could raise you all alongside your mother. We married shortly after meeting, and after three months, your mother announced that you had been successfully conceived. I was ecstatic, but just as the excitement had settled in, I was yet again called off to work. My job, as you may have already guessed, operates outside of what is legal in most countries, and is very dangerous, but I have always enjoyed my job, despite the risks. However, even I must admit that my last assignment went… well, poorly. _

_ I nearly died, mon enfant. After I returned home from my mission, your mother was rightfully horrified, and begged me to just quit already. In all sincerity, I wish I could, but in this line of work, one cannot simply leave of their own accord. You either die, sustain too serious an injury to continue killing, or you’re arrested and recieve the death penalty for your crimes. Of course, I didn’t tell your mother this. Instead, I lied to her, and told her I would quit. As of me writing this letter, you are due to be born by early August, and I’ve every intention of at least meeting you and seeing you take your first steps, but after that… I’m so very sorry, but I can’t stay here. If I stay, my employers will surely kill our family, and I cannot allow that to happen. I’m sorry, mon enfant, but this is the only way I can keep you safe. _

_ I want you to know that every day, no matter where you are in our universe, that I am thinking of you, and loving the very thought of you. Whether you’re out playing with your siblings, or keeping your mother company at home, or fast asleep in your bed, I will be loving you, and that love shall never wane or cease. Je t'aime mon enfant, but this is goodbye. Someday, when you are old enough to explore this earth of your own accord, I hope that I shall still be alive, and have the opportunity to meet you. I count the years, the months, the very days until we may meet again, little one. Until then, je t'aime, et au revoir. _

_ I love you, my child… whether you are Jeremy, Fleur, or someone else, I will always adore you. _

_ Sincerely yours, Papa. _

F**** is sobbing by the end of the letter, coming to scoop up all of the photographs and hug them to his chest, as if these pieces of laminated paper could  _ possibly  _ take the place of his father. So, Pa really  _ did  _ love him… or  _ does, _ if he’s even alive anymore. Still crying, F**** rubs at his eyes, and forces himself to see if anything else is in the box, as it seems much heavier than it should’ve been. Trying to be quick, F**** pulls out a folded up, black tuxedo, an old cigarette case, a very old plastic rose pen that is very likely out of ink, a domino mask, a pair of black gloves, and finally, a large, weighted suitcase. So  _ that’s  _ what made this thing so damn heavy! Grunting as he picks it up, F**** wastes no time in getting the suitcase open, desperate to see what’s inside. To his utter shock, it’s stacks and stacks of money, looking akin to the suitcases of cash that mobsters in old crime movies usually get from the cops, expect when F**** looks through the money, he sees that every last bill is one-hundred percent legitimate.

Amidst the wads of cash, F**** finds another note, this one shorter, and not on the back of another photograph. The note reads:  _ [“From Papa, to mon enfant. Sorry that I had to go, but at least I left you half a million dollars. How’s THAT for a college fund?”] _

“MA!” F**** is up and shouting in no time flat, movements frantic as he makes a mad dash for the door, only to slam face-first into it in his rush to get out of his room. “Mom, holy _ fuck!” _

“What the  _ fuck  _ is goin’ on down here!?” Ma asks, running down the stairs as fast she can to check on her son; it’s honestly a good thing only her and F**** live here anymore, or there would be a stampede of protective older brothers outside of F****’s room by now.

F**** finally manages to get his door unlocked, nearly hitting his mother with it when he kicks it open. “Ma, Pa made us fuckin’ rich!” He explains, still shouting like a madman. “You gotta see this shit, Ma!” He grabs his mother by the hand, dragging her into his bedroom.

Ma nearly trips on her son’s things, tempted to scold F**** for freaking out so much, but once she sees the suitcase full of money, her jaw drops. “What… what is this?” She asks, tone full of disbelief, as if she’s convinced she’s dreaming.

F**** manages to laugh, but there are tears streaming down his face the whole time. “I think my dad has a sick sense ‘a humor, Ma,” He elaborates, kneeling down to grab some of the money, handing it over to his mother without a second thought. “Looks like you’re retirin’ early.”

Ma hesitates, eyes glancing at the suitcase. She spots the note, and after grabbing and reading it, she scowls at her son. “Honey,  _ no; _ this money is for  _ you, _ not me.” She states, not wanting to take away her son’s last gift from his father.

“But Ma, you ‘n I  _ both  _ know I ain’t wastin’ my time with college,” F**** says, not caring that it comes out as a whine. “Come on,  _ please? _ ‘Cus if you don’t take it, I’mma waste it all on baseball cards; you know I fuckin’ will.”

“I ain’t takin’ all of it, son,” Ma repeats, but at least she’s starting to accept F****’s offer. “At least take a third of it.”

“No way; one fifth for me, the rest for you. For Christ’s sake, Ma, you deserve it for havin’ to raise eight fuckin’ boys by yourself,” F**** explains, trying for a softer approach. He then hugs his mother, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder.  _ “Please, _ Mama… just take the money. I love you, ‘n now that I’m gonna be leavin’ in a couple ‘a days, I don’t wanna think ‘bout you still workin’ that shitty job ‘a yours.”

“My job ain’t  _ that  _ shitty.” Ma says, rolling her eyes at F****’s dramatics, even as her hands come to rest gently on the back of the teenager’s neck.

F**** huffs at that. “Ma, you work a nine to five at a fuckin’  _ Dollar Tree;  _ you’re too good for that shit anymore.”

Ma sighs in defeat, simply nodding her head. “Okay, okay… you win, F****,” She then freezes, realizing what she called her son. “Sorry, son, I didn’t-”

“-It’s fine, Ma,” F**** assures, refusing to let himself sound bitter. “Kinda hard to have emotional moments when I don’t got a name picked out yet.”

“No kiddin’,” Ma can’t help but agree, glad to not only change the subject, but finally put this next one to rest. “So, what’re ya thinkin’ of namin’ yourself, hun? Sorry to say I ain’t got many names up my sleeve, seein’ as I wasted all my good ideas on your dumbass brothers.”

F**** chuckles in good fun, grinning at his mom. “Ya know… I think I’ve finally got somethin’,” He admits, eyes glancing back towards the pile of photographs his father left for him. “What do ya think ‘a Jeremy?”

_ “Jeremy? _ I thought that was a nerdy name,” Ma teases, remembering exactly how her youngest boy reacted when she first told him the name. She then softens, smiling with pride in her eyes at the young man in front of her. “Ignore my teasin’, sweetheart; I think it’s a wonderful name. Your Papa would be so proud of you…  _ Jeremy.” _

Jeremy can’t help but genuinely smile at that, the name feeling so,  _ so  _ right. Why did he wait so long to use this name? It doesn’t matter; it fits now, and that’s enough for him. “I hope so, Mama,” He says, hugging the woman again, this time even tighter. “I miss him like crazy.”

“Me too, baby boy, me too,” Ma agrees, hugging her son just as tightly. “But he loves you so,  _ so  _ much, Jeremy, and don’t you  _ ever  _ forget it.”

“I’ll try not to, Ma… I’ll try.” Jeremy whispers, closing his eyes as he leans on his mother, feeling exhausted after such a whirlwind of emotions happening in less than two hours. His other gifts from the family can wait; right now, all Jeremy wants is to lie down and sleep, and maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll have a dream about that raven-haired, cigarette smoking man in the photos.

* * *

When Jeremy is twenty, he finally meets the man from the photograph, not that he realizes it at first.

It’s been two years since he found out that his father was alive from the fragments the man left behind for him, and a lot has changed since then. Since that day, Jeremy’s legally had his name changed to what he prefers, he’s been on testosterone for three and a half months, and he’s even gotten a few binders that Timmy helped him pick out and buy. Not long after turning eighteen, Jeremy left home to strike out on his own, with only about one-hundred thousand dollars to his name… which he, very stupidly, wasted all on a pretty girl who called him handsome while he was looking for a place to squat at, and after way too many rounds of sex, a lot of shouting matches, and nearly getting shot by his girlfriend’s exhusband, Jeremy was left penniless and too afraid to tell his mother the truth, for fear that she’d have to get work as a minimum wage employee again. So, Jeremy did the only rational, smart thing he could do… he became a mercenary.

In all fairness, he didn’t go into this shit completely blind. While he’d been dating that bitch in Chicago- named Penny, ironically enough- he’d gotten involved with a local gang, and due to his killer swing with a bat, coupled with being fast on his feet, he got a good amount of cash while working with them. Unfortunately, after Penny kicked him to the curb, Jeremy’s gang abandoned him as well, leaving him unemployed on top of everything else. As luck would have it though, someone must’ve seen how skilled the young man was with his bat, but instead of reporting him to the police or selling him out to his last gang’s rivals, they took an interest in him. Three weird phone calls with an “Administrator” lady later, and Jeremy was being flown to the outskirts of New Mexico, ten-thousand dollars now in his bank account with the promise of more money on the way.

Needless to say, Jeremy is more than a little wary on arrival, scared of getting stuck in another Penny situation, but he can’t afford to turn this job down, not when it already looks so incredibly promising. When the helicopter finally lands in the desert, with a large compound in the distance, the boy is met by two people already waiting for him. After hopping out of the helicopter, the vehicle takes off without warning, the pilot not even saying goodbye to her passenger, which… really doesn’t make this any easier, but hey, Jeremy knew going into this that whatever he was getting hired for, it’s  _ definitely  _ fucking illegal. Quietly, the young man looks between the two people obviously waiting for him, trying to get a feel for what he’s dealing with here. The one to the left is a short, pretty woman wearing her dark hair up in a bun, black-rimmed glasses on her face, and a short, cute purple dress. The other person, to the right, is another shorty like Jeremy and the girl, though this guy is much more masculine, wearing a yellow construction helmet, goggles, and blue overalls.

“Howdy dere, partner!” The guy with overalls greets him in a southern drawl, an easy-going smile on his face. “I reckon yer the new recruit, am I right? A pleasure ta meet ya, son.” He steps forward, taking Jeremy’s hand in his to shake it.

Jeremy can’t help but smile, put at ease by the stranger’s friendliness as he shakes his hand in return. “Uh…  _ hi!” _ He says back, trying to be nice. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you too, sir!” He usually hates using any sort of formalities, but he’ll do it for this stranger’s sake.

The guy keeps on smiling, looking pleased by Jeremy’s parroted politeness. “Now  _ that’s  _ a welcome change; ain’t often that people ‘round here are open ta makin’ new friends. I’m the Engineer for our team, but you can jus’ call me Engie if Engineer’s too much of a mouthful for ya,” Suddenly, he leans forward so only Jeremy can hear him. “If you need anything, anything at all, you jus’ lemme know, alright son? I know we’re more ‘r less at war ‘ere, but as far as I’m concerned, a lot ‘a y’all ‘re too young for this shit, ‘n yer the youngest kid yet… if you need somethin’, even if it’s a shoulder ta cry on, you come get me, okay?”

“You scaring my new recruit, Engie?” The woman finally speaks up, and to Jeremy’s relief, she sounds just as friendly as Engie, but without the southern drawl. “Please don’t go traumatizing this kid like Medic did with the last one… the boss will kill me if we get another runaway.”

“I’m preventin’ that from happenin’, Miss Pauling!” Engie promises, swinging around to face the woman. Then, in another moment of affectionateness, he lays a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, much like a father would. “Don’t you worry, I’mma keep this lil’ guy safe ‘n sound!”

“Only if he let’s you, Engie; don’t go smothering him,” Miss Pauling orders, shooting Jeremy a sympathetic smile. “Sorry about our resident Engineer, buddy… he’s a bit of a dad friend.”

“I-It’s fine,” Jeremy promises, gulping around a lump in his throat. Miss Pauling is probably one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen, even prettier than Penny was! “It’s, uh, nice to meet ya, Miss Pauling! I’m-”

“-Wait!” Miss Pauling cuts Jeremy off, not letting him finish. When she’s met with a befuddled look in return, she genuinely blushes and looks away, appearing embarrassed. “Sorry about that, I just… if you can, try to avoid using your real name, okay? Out here, we use codenames, like how Engie goes by Engineer and our bomb guy goes by Demo,” She then flips through a folder in her arms, looking through what Jeremy can only assume is his file. “Let’s see… you’re going to be our Scout, okay? So if you’re comfortable with it, please go by Scout around here.”

“Oh… okay, sure,” Scout agrees, and although he prefers going by Jeremy nowadays, he can't say he hates the sound of his new codename. “So what’s a Scout do? Recon or somethin’?”

“Sorta,” Engie says, attempting to help Miss Pauling with the introduction. “A Scout’s our fastest guy; your job is to avoid gettin’ shot, grab intel, and get back to base in one piece,” He then chuckles, shaking his head at something he must find funny. “But don’t go frettin’ jus’ yet, son; we ain’t gettin’ started for another week or so, alright? And before then, we’ll all do a bunch ‘a trainin’ as a team, so that way we can work together on the field. Don’t worry, it’s all much easier than I’m makin’ it sound.”

“He’s right,” Miss Pauling adds, clearly thankful for Engie’s help. “For the next two weeks, you’ll be getting acquainted with your teammates, and in short bursts, we’ll get you all ready for your missions. For today and tomorrow, there’ll be no training,” She smiles kindly at Jeremy, something that gets the boy’s heart racing all over again. “Just go around and meet everyone on-base, okay Scout? I’ll see you again in a few days for your first mission.” With that, she walks out into the desert, a car appearing from seemingly nowhere to pick her up.

Once the car has driven off, Engie grins at Jeremy, his expression one of eagerness. “Ready to meet your new family, kiddo?”

Jeremy resists the urge to grimace, secretly hating how fatherly Engie is trying to act towards him, as he would rather have his missing dad do that. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He agrees, following the other man towards the compound, an uneasy ache overtaking his chest, and no, it’s not the binder this time.

* * *

Stepping into the compound- which he’s been told is called RED Base- Jeremy is immediately struck by an empty liquor bottle out of nowhere… so nothing out of the ordinary when you consider his family back home.

“Aw _ shite!”  _ Someone shouts, but Jeremy doesn’t even see who threw it or who’s yelling, instead crumbling to the floor as he nearly passes out on the spot.

When Jeremy manages to open his eyes again, he sees that Engie has his hands on his hips, the southerner looking downright  _ furious. _ “Alright, now what on  _ earth  _ was that for? Goodness, can y’all at least wait to mess with ‘im until  _ after  _ he’s settled!?” Engie asks, even tapping his foot for good measure.

From out of Jeremy’s line of sight, someone audibly chuckles. “Sorry ‘bout that, Engie,” Someone with a Scottish accent says, sounding more sheepish about getting scolded than sorry for what he did. “Wasn’t aimin’ fer the laddie, was aimin’ fer the damned bushman.”

“The hell for?” Engie asks, not all that impressed with the Scotsman’s excuse.

“I called ‘im a cunt,” The Bushman, apparently, admits from the other side of the room, not sounding the least bit sorry either. “Ta be fair, be was bloody actin’ like one.”

Engie just sighs, shaking his head in disappointment. “You kids ‘re gonna be the death ‘a me, I swear,” Finally, he glances down at Jeremy again, giving him an apologetic frown. “Sorry ‘bout them, sport; the folks ‘ere like ta play a lil’ rough.”

“It’s fine,” Jeremy mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with a small wince. “Can’t be any worse than my brothers back home.”

“Hahaha!” The Scotsman laughs at Jeremy’s response, walking over to tower over the younger man. The Scotsman has an eyepatch over his left eye, a decent beard, and… oh dear  _ god, _ he smells so strongly of gunpowder, Jeremy’s half scared he’ll barf. “I like da jib ‘a this one; laddie can actually take a damn joke!” He then offers a hand to the new kid, still grinning at him. “The name’s Demoman, my boy, but you oughta jus’ call me Demo!”

“Hi, Demo,” Jeremy says, grunting as he accepts the hand and is pulled to his feet again. He sways in place a little, half scared that the bottle knocked something loose, but once his vision rights itself, he relaxes. “Uh, I’m Scout… nice to meet ya, I guess.” He doesn’t bother with being as polite to Demo as he was to Engie, on account of getting hit with a fucking beer bottle by him.

“I’m Sniper,” The Bushman from before states, still standing out of Jeremy’s line of sight. When the boy turns to look at him, he gets a good once-over of the resident Sniper, who wears an old fashioned stock hat, a brown vest, and sunglasses… were it not for Jeremy knowing better than to out himself, he’d ask if Sniper was also trans, if only because the guy’s outfit looks like he’s trying everything in his power to flatten his chest and look masculine. “Good ta meet ya, mate. Just keep your head down, aight? No need ta get it shot off on your first day.” Sniper suggests, snapping Jeremy out of his stupor.

“Aw, don’t tease ‘im, Mundy,” Engie orders, once again reminding Jeremy of an authority or father figure. He then turns to look at Jeremy again, giving him a small smirk. “Sorry again that ya got hurt, lil’ buddy… ‘fraid that’s more common than anybody would like, but hey, at least ya didn’t get burnt by Pyro.”

“Pyro?” Jeremy repeats, not immediately recognizing the name, as he didn’t pay all that much attention to The Administrator's briefing over the phone before he was brought here.

“Our resident arsonist,” Sniper clarifies, his smirk dropping to a grimace. “They’re… friendly enough. Jus’ don’t go pissin’ ‘em off none, aight? They ain’t particularly fond ‘a bein’ teased none, ‘specially not by their teammates.”

“No teasin’ the fire person? You got it,” Jeremy agrees, making a mental note to use gender neutral pronouns for the arsonist, as he has a feeling they’re non-binary, judging by the pronouns that’ve been used for them so far. “So, uh… not to be rude, but where the hell am I sleepin’ tonight?” He asks, trying to not only move the conversation along, but try to figure out when he can get some rest, as it’s rather late at night, and he’s exhausted after such a long day.

Demo shrugs half-heartedly. “There’s plenty ‘a empty rooms, laddie,” He promises, pointing with his thumb at the hallway behind him. “Have yer pick ‘a them, ‘n get some good rest. Shite, boy, ya look about ready ta sleep on ya feet there!”

Jeremy resists the urge to growl at Demo, not liking the way he’s being talked to. “Not my fault that fuckin’ bottle teased me with a nap… I feel like I’m gonna pass out.” He yawns, further proving his point.

Engie chuckles at that, amused by Jeremy’s behavior. “Alright, I think it’s ‘bout time you got ta bed, son… ya want me ta help ya find a good room, buddy? You can sleep near mine if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” Jeremy says, quickly growing sick of Engie’s coddling. “I think I’ll be just fine, man… goodnight, guys.” He readjusts his backpack, picks back up his suitcase, gives the gathered men a mock salute, and promptly hurries down the hallway Demo pointed him towards.

To Jeremy’s relief, no one else on the team seems to be awake this late at night, so he doesn’t have to go through anymore introductions. However, as he passes by the many doors down this hallway, examining the nameplates on each one, it gets his memory jogging faster, reminding him of a few things he was told about his new teammates before coming here. Pyro, the resident firefly; the team’s best person for spreading damage, but uninterested in conversations with their teammates. Medic, the team’s only healer; don’t make fun of his pigeons and he’ll heal you, but he might experiment on you if you aren’t careful. Heavy, the muscle; stay out of his way and don’t make fun of his gun. Soldier, the…  _ soldier; _ definitely fucking insane, but damn good with a rocket launcher. By the time Jeremy gets to the end of the hall, he suddenly finds a name he doesn’t recognize; Spy. Not only that, but he sees that the room next to Spy’s is labeled “Spy’s Smoking Room”, something that catches Jeremy off-guard. Does  _ everyone  _ get more than one room, or is Spy just that much of a badass? Shaking his head, the youth pushes the thought away, not wanting to keep himself up by overthinking his new job.

Across from Spy’s bedroom, Jeremy finds the only unmarked room (so much for “plenty of empty rooms”) in the hallway, which he mentally claims as his own before even opening the door. Inside, he finds a sparsely furnished bedroom, looking much like a clean hotel room, with nothing more than a twin-sized mattress with red sheets and a red pillow, an empty desk, a wheely-chair, an empty dresser, and a small looking closet. Biting back a sigh, Jeremy steps into the room, relieved to at least find a lock on the door, which he puts to good use in the name of privacy. As the boy unloads his belongings- namely by tossing his clothes haphazardly into the bottom drawer of his dresser and kicking it shut- he doesn’t hear any doors open, and yet… he feels like he’s being watched. Shivering, Jeremy glances around the small room, but it’s just as empty as he thought it was. Even so, he’s too unnerved to undress out in the open, so he takes his pajamas into the closet in order to get changed, well accustomed to changing in close-quarters after years of awkwardness in high school locker rooms. After he’s changed, Jeremy steps lazily out of the closet, only to ram straight into an invisible wall.

“What the  _ fuck!?” _ Jeremy shouts on instinct, spooked by hitting what he can only assume is an invisible barrier of some kind.

“Merde!” An older voice yells in turn, and before Jeremy’s very eyes, the space in front of him glitches with blurs of red, until finally, a well-dressed man is revealed from thin air.

The once invisible man is dressed in a formal looking crimson suit, with a smooth-looking ski mask covering everything on his face, save for his mouth and eyes. The intruder’s pupils are wide as they stare at Jeremy, demonstrating that he’s just as freaked out as the young man he’s been caught spying on.

“Um, what the  _ fuck?” _ Jeremy repeats, but with less anger and more confusion this time around. “Uh…  _ hi? _ Hello? Who the  _ fuck  _ ‘re you?”

“Who ze fuck are you?” The man asks in turn, his accent sounding French, which Jeremy is certain of, as he knows his deadname would sound right- well, not  _ completely  _ right, obviously- on this guy’s tongue.

“I asked you first, asshole,” Jeremy points out, not even  _ trying  _ to keep himself from sneering at the taller man. “Now ‘re you gonna explain yourself, or am I gonna have to kick your ass to next Tuesday?”

The intruder laughs, much to Jeremy’s frustration. “Oh  _ please, _ you shall do no such zing,” He says, wearing an easy-going smirk on his face. “As you may have already guessed, I am ze Spy of zis team. And  _ you  _ are?”

“Scout,” Jeremy says, still uneasy as he looks Spy over, something about the man making him want to punch his lights out. “Do you seriously break into  _ everybody’s  _ room when ya meet ‘em?”

“Oui,” Spy has no problem with admitting this, still looking amused by Jeremy’s apparent anger towards him. “And what are you planning on doing about it, petit garçon?”

“Hey, I ain’t a little kid, asshole! Don’t fuckin’ call me that!” Jeremy puts more weight on his toes as he gets in Spy’s face, trying to raise himself to the older man’s level, but he’s just too short to be intimidating.

Spy laughs again, still not taking Jeremy seriously, but the glint in his eyes suggests he’s surprised that the youth understood him. “You know French? At least you’re bilingual,” He looks away for a moment, his expression unreadable. “And here I was concerned zat Becky would forget to teach you such a beautiful language.”

Jeremy feels his heart skip a beat, his blood running cold. “How… how do you know my Mom’s name!?” He asks, voice more frantic than angry.

Spy shrugs, giving nothing away. “I know her in passing,” He says, his answer as vague as physically possible. Then, suddenly, he stares into Jeremy’s eyes, and it’s only now that the boy realizes that he and this intruder have the same exact eye color. “My… you look  _ so  _ exhausted,” Spy says, and although Jeremy can’t be sure of it, he’s half convinced that the Frenchman meant to say something else to him, but whatever it was, he choked on it. “You should get some rest, Scout… you’ve chosen a  _ very  _ dangerous path to follow, and zere is much more to come. Sleep well, jeune éclaireur.” And just like that, Spy disappears from thin air… then unlocks the door and leaves, making the action of turning invisible rather pointless.

Jeremy stares dumbly at his bedroom door, not sure what to say or do. Some stupid, childish part of his brain is tempted to run and hide in Spy’s room, only to pop up and scare him later, but he knows that would more than likely lead to disaster. With that option off the table, the kid part of Jeremy’s brain goes in another direction now, fixated on the strange mannerisms and features of Spy. He’s French, knows his mother, has the exact same eye color as him… Jeremy scowls, shaking his head in earnest. No  _ way,  _ Spy  _ can’t  _ be his dad, there’s no way in  _ hell  _ that something like that could happen! That Administrator lady has all of Jeremy’s files, including his birth certificate and medical history, so it wouldn’t be contrived to imagine that she has  _ all  _ of her employees’ legal documents, right? Therefore, it would be very stupid of her to knowingly hire both Jeremy  _ and  _ his biological father onto the same team. Wouldn’t she want to avoid  _ all  _ possible complications, especially any that could be exploited, such as familial connections? Yes, that makes more sense than the stupid daydreams Jeremy’s brain is already cooking up, annoyingly obsessed with the idea.

Well, there’s no use thinking about this stupid ass theory anymore, not when it’s well past midnight and he’s tired as all hell. All but moaning with relief, Jeremy collapses onto his new bed, secretly shocked by how soft and comfortable it is; seems the Administrator made sure to supply her mercenaries with more than just the basic necessities, going so far as to make their living spaces comfortable for them. Sighing, Jeremy gets out of bed to grab a few more things from his suitcase- the same one his father left for him- and pulls out a long, knitted quilt Ma reportedly made for him when he was born. Not only that, he grabs his childhood stuffie as well, it being a bright blue crab he likes to keep hidden from people for obvious reasons. With his bedtime essentials gathered, Jeremy returns to bed, feeling much more at home now that he has more of his comfort things with him. Sure, the walls of his room are rather bare, and there are no decorations to speak of, but given a few more weeks and paychecks, Jeremy intends on covering his room in baseball team merch, just like his room back at Ma’s house. With one last yawn, the young man finally passes out, clutching his crab in his sleep.

He’s out so fast, he doesn’t even hear Spy come back into his room- the man still invisible- to check on him, making sure to tuck Jeremy in better before leaving. Come morning, the boy will assume Engie was being too parental to him again, never knowing it was his new rival’s doing.

* * *

The day after Scout turns twenty-one, he finally learns who his father is… not that he expected to find out in the midst of a firefight.

“How’re you holdin’ up, birthday boy? You still feelin’ that buzz in yer chest?” Demo shouts over the roar of gunfire, Scout barely even hearing him because of all the noise.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole! And my birthday was yesterday!” Scout yelps, narrowly missing a stray rocket by jumping into Demoman’s hiding spot, taking a moment to just sit down and catch his breath. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, them blues don’t ever stop, do they?”

“Nope!” Demo pops the word out, but not before taking a long swig of whiskey, letting out a blood curdling roar of laughter afterwards. “Hahaha! Oh, I’mma give ‘em hell tonight, laddie, just you watch! I’ve been cookin’ up somethin’ nice ‘n spicy in me workshop, and I’ve a feelin’ the enemies ‘re gonna  _ love it!” _

Scout all but rolls his eyes, offhandedly reloading his shotgun while he has the time to. “Whatever, man, jus’ don’t expect me to scrap ya off the concrete when your bombs go off too soon.”

Demo huffs at that, unimpressed by the reference. “That was just the one time, ‘n you damn well know it, ya lil’ runt,” Sobered up for just a moment, he nudges at Scout’s side, trying to get the runner going again. “How ‘bout you harass the Mundy, aye? Ain’t got no time fer ya damn games, not when there ‘re kills ta be gettin’!”

“Yeah yeah,” Scout mutters, hitching his shotgun back into his bag as he prepares to start running again. “Gimme a distraction, will ya? Let’s see if that shitty aim ‘a yours will improve with a lil’ practice.”

“Cheeky lil’ shit,” Demo says, but he nonetheless sends a few bottles of whiskey flying into the air, drawing the enemy’s sight away from him and Scout for a brief moment. “Go on, boy, that’s yer cue! Give ‘em hell!”

Scout gives a rare, wordless nod, taking off like a bat out of hell. Almost right away, he’s got enemies shooting at him, but the runner is just too fast for them, dipping and dodging with a barely repressed laugh building in his chest. Although battlefields are far different than the back alley streets of Boston he grew up running through, he’s familiar enough with navigating on the move that it’s not all that hard for him to not only escape gunfire unharmed but make his way towards BLU base without much trouble. Deep down he knows he oughta call for backup, especially since the enemy team will likely have an Engineer and their turret set up near the base, but Scout can hardly contain his excitement enough to wait, still riding the high of freshly turning twenty-one. His birthday party yesterday was a  _ blast,  _ the boy being woken up with a giant cake baked (and promptly burnt) by Pyro, a shit ton of balloons, and pretty much his whole team gathered in his room to sing the happy birthday song to him at the tops of their lungs. Although he’d been spooked by the surprise- and damn near whacked Heavy in the nuts with his bat before remembering what day it was- Scout was touched by the gesture, though he didn’t say it aloud on account of his pride.

As expected, the team mostly got him baseball related gifts, as they all know how much he loves the sport, save for one gift that was unmarked, meaning it had to be from Spy, who was the only one who didn’t attend. Inside the box, Scout found a pair of new running shoes in his size, much to his surprise. As fun as the party had been, what with Soldier resorting to using his rocket launcher on the pinata since he kept missing it with the bat, Demo filling the punch bowl with a genuinely  _ frightening  _ amount of alcohol, and Engie’s teleporter malfunctioning and summoning too many cupcakes, the team of mercenaries still had work to do the next day, and had little to no time to nurse their hangovers. This, among other things, is why Scout is uneasy but still fast on his feet during today’s firefight, the youth convinced that he had way too much to drink last night, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Wobbly the entire time, he makes a mad dash for where he knows a can of Bonk! is located instead of continuing towards BLU base, hoping and praying that the soda hasn’t been taken yet.

Just as he gets through the doorway though, the can of Bonk! in sight, Scout feels seering, fiery pain in his legs, which sends him spiraling to the floor. The enemy Heavy must’ve noticed him, as while the runner had been dashing inside, the Heavy opened fire, managing to make Scout’s legs look akin to swiss cheese afterwards, his flesh covered in bullet holes. Were Ma here, she’d probably faint, then take her son’s bat and bash the enemy Heavy’s head in for hurting her baby boy, but since she isn’t here, Scout has resigned himself to bleeding out on the floor. With a choked groan, he drags himself further into the building, just trying to get out of sight, but his binder is absolutely crushing his ribcage from so much running, and he can hear the enemy Heavy closing in, audibly reloading his minigun in preparation to execute the troublesome RED mercenary trying to hide from him. Scout can’t say he’s  _ too  _ scared, as he’s died and respawned many times in the last few months, but he definitely isn’t looking forward to the repeated experience, as it hurts like nothing else. However, just as Scout closes his eyes, fully prepared to open them again in the RED spawn room, he hears what sounds like frantic stabbing, a shout, and then abrupt silence.

Frozen with both fear and confusion, Scout listens for anything else, only hearing the quiet patter of footsteps coming his way. Moments later, and the RED Spy drops his invisibility cloak to appear before the younger merc, his face plastered with a splash of bright, crimson red blood, appearing very fresh, and definitely not coming from any injuries on him. Scout resists the urge to wince at the sight, as he doesn’t want to be rude to the guy who just saved his sorry ass, even though he can’t say he likes Spy all that much. Oh sure, he definitely appreciates the new running shoes, but he hates the way the Frenchman constantly teases and screws with him, always wearing that condescending, satisfied smile when he gets a rise out of the runner. If Scout didn’t know any better, then he’d likely accuse Spy of being a sadist, seeing as he likes to start shit even more than Scout does, but Spy only fights with the youngest merc of the group, meaning it must just be a Spy vs Scout thing. In the aftermath of saving his rival, Spy simply stares at Scout, looking ready to say something, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, a gun goes off, and in a flash, Spy is on the floor, the enemy Sniper having shot him in the shoulder, thankfully missing his head.

“Jesus  _ fuck!” _ Scout yelps, and in a frenzy, he forces himself to stand, even though it hurts like hell. He drags Spy further into the makeshift fort, getting them both out of range of the enemy Sniper. “Goddamn, man, you are heavy as _ shit!” _ He grumbles, grunting as he tries to pick up Spy, but the guy’s just too heavy for him, forcing the boy to keep dragging him across the floor.

“Just leave me,” Spy suggests, and he must be at least a little okay, seeing as he’s acting like his usual melodramatic self. “Don’t bother with me, Scout.”

“Shut up, ya dramatic bitch,” Scout orders, rolling his eyes as he finally reaches the back of the shack, where he doubts anyone will see them. Once they’re safe, he promptly let’s go of Spy, letting the Frenchman bleed on the floor while he looks around the room. “Stay put, alright? Lemme find a fuckin’ med kit ‘r somethin’.”

Spy doesn’t respond, which only goes to make Scout more worried. Still unsteady due to all the pain in his legs, the runner limps around the small shack, relieved that no one has decided to go after him and Spy yet. However, amidst all his pacing, Scout hears Spy fall into a coughing fit from his spot on the floor. “Don’t bother looking for medicine,” Spy suggests, his voice growing weak from fatigue. “Zere’s none in here, only your blasted soda… face it, mon petit lapin, we may as well bleed out and wait to respawn back in ze base.”

“No way, I ain’t dyin’ the day after my fuckin’ birthday; I want a clean record today!” Scout says, not that he thinks the other team knows it was his birthday yesterday, and even if they did, they probably wouldn’t go any easier on him because of it. “Stay here, alright frog? I’ll be back lickity split!” With a deep breath, alongside a huge gulp of Bonk!, Scout grits his teeth, and through a small hole in the wall of the shack, he squirms through and starts running.

He feels just about ready to fall over and die, the pain unbearable, but the Bonk! helps numb a majority of the pain, giving Scout the strength he needs to keep going. On his way to where he knows a med kit is supposed to be, he sees Medic, and seeing as the doctor is glued by Heavy’s side, Scout doubts he’ll be able to drag him away to help Spy anytime soon. Nonetheless, the runner pauses by Medic’s side in order to get healed, which obviously surprises the doctor, as he’s well accustomed to Scout running non-stop, even when he’s in dire need of healing. The minute he feels better, Scout is off and running again, shouting nothing more than a rushed “thanks” to Medic as he goes back to sprinting towards his destination. Along the way, he ducks past a number of small shootouts, narrowly missing getting killed on his journey, and save for a slight burn on his left arm, Scout turns up on the other side of the map unharmed. To his relief, he finds the med kit he was looking for, and refusing to use it on himself, Scout picks it up and takes off running back to the shack. This time around, there are much fewer enemies around, his team having sent most of them back to respawn, but that doesn’t keep the boy from being careful on his way back to Spy.

By the time Scout’s returned, only about three minutes have passed, and to the boy’s immense relief, Spy is still in the shack where he left him, though the Frenchman has made an effort to prop himself up against a wall so he can rest. “About time you returned,” Spy mutters, but his voice holds no real venom, the man too exhausted by blood loss to be mean. “Have you found someone to fucking kill me yet, or are you intending on watching me bleed like a dog?”

“I brought you a juice-box, dumbass,” Scout says, tossing the med kit at Spy, only for it to hit the man square in the face. “The least you could fuckin’ do is be grateful.”

“You… brought me medicine?” Spy asks, clearly shocked by Scout’s kindness.

“Yeah, I brought you some juice,” Scout repeats, now wearing a loose smirk on his face at the continued use of slang, as he knows that Spy  _ hates it  _ when he calls health _ ‘bone unhurting juice’ _ and other such silly terms. “Consider it a thank you for gettin’ me these awesome new sneakers, old man… and also for gettin’ that freakin’ Heavy, too.”

Still appearing surprised by the gesture, Spy pries the kit open, attempting to heal himself, but his hands are unsteady and weak. “Aw fuck,” Scout mutters, coming over to crouch in front of Spy and do it himself. “You really  _ are  _ hopeless, ya know that?” He begins to ramble out of habit, having never been one for long bouts of silence. “Always sneakin’ around, actin’ like you’re fuckin’ James Bond ‘r some dumbass shit like that… but I know you’re jus’ a coward,” Scout isn’t sure why he words it like that, something in his heart loathing the way Spy behaves around him. “You keep startin’ shit with me, always givin’ me hell for no reason but to, what? Stare at me like I killed your fuckin’ puppy? I know you’re a lyin’ sonofabitch, Spy. I know you’re, what’s it called?” Scout waves his hand through the air in a noncommittal gesture, trying to remember the word he’s looking for.  _ “Projecting? _ Is that it? Yeah, you’re definitely fuckin’ doin’ that, dude.”

Spy stays quiet for the most part, only helping out by unbuttoning and opening his shirt so Scout can get at his wound better, the Frenchman simply…  _ staring  _ at Scout, just like he always does. Once the younger mercenary is finally done, he readjusts Spy’s suit for him, which triggers Spy to finally react, cupping one of his hands on Scout’s shoulder to get his attention. “Scout, I… I am  _ not  _ projecting, at least, not ze way you may believe I am. Zere is something I have been needing to tell you for some time, and as zere is no better time zen when you are bleeding out on ze battlefield…” He trails off, voice hoarse and low. Slowly, he tugs off his mask for the first time in Scout’s presence- possibly  _ anyone  _ on the team’s presence- revealing a familiar face to the other man. “I’ve waited a  _ very  _ long time for zis day, mon fils, but I believe it was worth it… you’ve become a  _ very  _ strong man, despite my absence, and I am so,  _ so  _ proud of you.”

Scout is shell-shocked, his jaw going slack as he stares at Spy’s face, finding it simultaneously so familiar, yet not at all. What once was short, pampered raven hair is still just as short, but now it’s tousled and, most notably, entirely greyed out. Ignoring the matching set of eyes to his own, Scout looks over Spy’s other features more, finding the skin on the Frenchman’s face to be weathered and wrinkled with both age, and a known addiction to smoking. Not even thinking to keep himself in check, Scout’s hands end up resting on Spy’s cheeks, turning the older man’s head this way and that in order to look at him better, examining every little cut, bump, and scar on his face. Spy smiles at this, silently amused by the runner’s curiosity, which only goes to attract Scout to yet another similarity between them; that familiar, adoring smile from his father’s photographs resurfacing. It really  _ is  _ him… Scout’s  _ finally  _ found him; he’s found his papa. Very slowly and skittishly, much like a frightened bunny rabbit, the younger merc leans forward, wanting so badly to hug his father, but he’s scared to make things weird. Luckily for him, Spy closes the distance for his kid, raising his arms to wrap them around Scout’s torso and pull him forward, dragging the boy into a much needed hug.

“Surprised?” Spy asks, breaking the silence to check on his long lost child. “I’ve aged much since I left you zose photographs, but I can only hope zat ze wait was worth it, if not long overdue. Please forgive me, I meant to tell you yesterday evening, but after Demoman spiked ze punch and you were too intoxicated to even  _ zink, _ I-”

“-Shut up,” Scout orders, his voice laden with tears. “Just shut up and hug me, you stupid old man.”

_ “Zat _ I can do.” Spy mutters, holding onto his son just a little tighter, relieved that he doesn’t have to explain himself too early into the reveal.

However, not even a full minute later, the duo hears footsteps coming their way. In a flash, Spy has his mask back on, and just in time too, as seconds later, the enemy Soldier is standing in the doorway, staring them down with his rocket launcher at the ready.

“Um… _ sup _ , my guy,” Scout greets, still being hugged by his father, not that the enemy knows who they are to each other. “What’s up? Been havin’ a good match?”

As if to respond, the enemy Soldier opens fire, killing both Spy and Scout in one shot. About thirty seconds later, they spawn right back into RED base, Scout landing on top of Spy. “Merde!” Spy curses, having not expected for his son to spawn right on top of him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Scout says, scrambling to get off of the man. Once he and Spy are both standing again, an awkwardness fills the air, the two of them feeling unbelievably uncomfortable. “Huh… guess in the drama ‘a you gettin’ hurt, I kinda forgot we could, ya know, fuckin’ respawn ‘n all.”

“Oui,” Spy agrees, face likely as red as his suit underneath the mask. “It seems, in retrospect, zat those dramatics were rather…  _ unnecessary,”  _ He then looks away, appearing embarrassed, too. “Forgive me for my behavior, Scout, I did not-”

“-So were you, like, not gonna tell me after ya lost your nerve last night?” Scout can’t help but ask, still trying to deal with what he’s just learned about his rival.

“Um… likely not for another year, no,” Spy admits, not bothering with lying to Scout, now that he knows the truth. “Is zere anything you must know right zis instant, or shall we return to ze match?”

“Match first, existential crisis later.” Scout decides, and before Spy can stop him, he’s off and running with every intention of getting his head lost in the game, if only so he can forget about this bullshit for a few hours.

* * *

Scout is twenty-one, sixteen hours, and seven minutes old when he finally gets some answers from his father.

The rest of the match went well enough, with RED winning by a landslide… no thanks to Spy or Scout, not that anyone was willing to point it out or anything. In the aftermath of the fight, with everyone going back to base to either eat, take a nap, or hang out before bed, Scout feels like everyone’s eyes are on him, as if they all know what happened out there between him and Spy. In all honesty, the feeling isn’t very different from how Scout felt throughout most of high school, having always felt like he was completely out of place. Now that he’s an adult and has begun transitioning, Scout finally understands where most of those feelings of isolation stemmed from as a kid, but here with all these mercs that are all nearly a decade older than him, if not more in a few cases, he can’t figure out why he feels like ants are crawling under his skin. Not even thinking about it, Scout scratches nervously at his bare arms, it being a long time habit from his younger days. Unfortunately for him, this impromptu scratching fit immediately catches the attention of Medic, who is now unabashedly staring at the youngest mercenary from across the room. Scout moves to hide in his room, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice Medic’s staring, but he’s stopped by a hand clapping onto his shoulder.

“Freezing out zere, isn’t it?” Spy asks, covering up for Scout’s itching by pretending it’s something else entirely. “I suppose it’s bound to become freezing after dark, especially in ze desert of all places. Come, why don’t you rest in my study, and warm up by ze fireplace?”

“Huh?” Scout is stunned for a minute, not understanding the offer, but the puzzle pieces quickly tumble into place for him.  _ “Oh! _ Oh yeah, sure, that sounds  _ great, _ Spy!” He says a little too eagerly, trying desperately to ignore Medic still staring at him.

“Are you zure zat scratching iz not being caused by some…  _ different  _ zide-effects?” Medic inquires, breaking his silence while giving Scout a far too sadistic grin, all teeth and no heart. “Scout, why not ztep into my office for a few minutes, zo that I may investigate zis further, yes? No reason to risk your health.”

“He’s just  _ cold,  _ Doctor,” Spy insists, and to Scout’s shock, the older man wraps an arm around his torso, keeping Medic from having the chance to drag him away. “Please, zere is no need for any of your experiments tonight.”

Medic huffs at that, rolling his eyes at Spy. “Oh  _ please,  _ I would not have hurt him…  _ much,” _ When Scout’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, the doctor loses his shit laughing, sounding akin to a madman. “Hahaha, you zhould zee ze look on your face! Priceless, I zwear!” He then turns to Heavy, shooting the tank of a man a much less frightening smile. “Heavy, would you like to join me for tea tonight?”

“Of course, Doctor,” Heavy agrees, not even hesitating to set his half finished sandwich aside in favor of following Medic. On his way to the doctor’s office, he ruffles Scout’s hair, knocking off the younger mercenary’s hat in the process. “Warm up soon, little runner… cannot have you getting sick; is not good for morale, for runt to die.”

Scout glares at Heavy, making a show out of kneeling down, picking up his hat, standing up again, and adjusting it back on his head like a baseball player. “Stop treatin’ me like a kid, lardhead,” He orders, more than a little tired of being babied by his teammates, as it only goes to remind him of his family back home. “How ‘bout you shag with your fuckin’ boyfriend, huh? That oughta loosen your ass up a bit.”

Heavy sneers at Scout for the remark, and gently when compared to his true strength, he smacks Scout upside the head. “Brat.” He deadpans, not bothering with anymore insults.

Once Heavy is out of sight, and it’s just Scout and Spy in the main entrance to the base, Scout gives Spy a jokester’s smile. “He’s such a freakin’ tightass, am I right?”

Spy rolls his eyes, unimpressed by Scout’s behavior. “Cher Dieu, you really  _ do  _ take after your mother, don’t you?” He sighs, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it before taking a long puff. “Come.” He gives a simple order, letting go of Scout in favor of walking towards his study.

Scout hesitates for a moment, weighing his options. On one hand, he’s eager to get some actual answers from his father, and perhaps learn more about him in the process, and yet… now that he knows the truth, some weak, cowardly part of Scout longs to forget, if only so nothing will change between him and Spy. Sure, he wouldn’t mind having the overbearing Frenchman back off a bit, but… is he  _ really  _ ready to have a father in his life? Does he even  _ want  _ that? When he was  _ very  _ young, Scout heard stories of what it was like to have a dad from his brothers, and while some- namely Grant and the twins- remembered it in a negative light, boys like Timmy and Patrick missed their fathers like nothing else, and spoke fondly of what it was like to have them in their lives. As a kid, Scout had wanted that too, as he knew there was a void in his childhood. Ma handled him and his brothers just fine by herself, but sometimes still as an adult, he can’t help wondering what it would’ve been like to have his dad there, especially after he learned he was still alive and loved him. That thought actually gets Scout to flinch, the runner remembering just how hard that reveal hit him, he was crying on and off for weeks afterwards, and still does every so often, longing to meet the mysterious man in the photos left behind, like a paper trail leading to a crime scene.

The question is, does Scout want to solve this mystery now that there’s more evidence, or leave it buried like the body he thought for eighteen years was six feet under?

“Scout?” Spy interrupts his son’s train of thought, even going so far as to wave a hand in front of the younger merc’s face. “Are you still in zere?”

Scout flinches, before shaking his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Just…” He trails off, unsure of how to word this.

“Frightened?” Spy asks, practically reading Scout’s mind. When this gets a nod from the runner, the Frenchman chuckles, but not in an unkind manner. “No need to worry, I am unnerved as well… zis is a lot to process in such a short time.”

“You’ve had  _ years  _ to get used to it; I’ve had, like, four hours. Tops.” Scout points out, unable to keep from sounding resentful over that.

“Not quite, mon chér,” Spy says, taking another puff of his cigarette. When he fails to continue, and is met with a harsh glare from Scout, he laughs again. “Don’t worry, all shall be explained very soon. Come, we must discuss zis in a more…  _ private  _ setting.” Again, he starts walking towards his study, this time noticeably slower than before.

Scout follows after him this time, keeping close to the taller mercenary, and without his consent, the runner is vaguely reminded of the times he would go into crowds with his mom as a kid, and how she would hold his hand so he wouldn’t get lost or trampled. At this, Scout can’t help but glance at the back of Spy’s head, still trying to figure out how on earth this French bastard, who has to turn invisible every time he leaves a room for the mere aesthetic, who’s accent honestly sounds fucking fake, and has the most annoying laugh known to mankind, could  _ possibly  _ be his father. It sounds insane, even to Scout, who in the last several months has been introduced to immortality/resurrection, a surgeon who literally replaced the team tank’s heart with a baboon heart, and Soldier. Needless to say, Scout knows he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is, considering how obvious this revelation was in retrospect, but come on, give him a chance to be dramatic first! By the time Scout is contemplating running to hide in his room, the father and son duo finally reach Spy’s smoking room, and it’s only now that Scout realizes, oh shit, this is actually happening; he’s about to lock himself into a room with his least favorite teammate, who he now knows is his dad, and to be honest, he’s terrified.

“Hey, on second thought,” Scout doesn’t know what comes over him, the words just sort of tumbling out in a frenzy. “How ‘bout we sleep on this, alright? Maybe we’ll wake up, ‘n this’ll all have been a shitty, weird as fuck nightmare. What’d ya say, pal?”

Spy simply stares Scout down, his expression seemingly neutral, yet still thoroughly unimpressed by his child’s excuses. “Scout, I have been waiting over _ twenty-one years _ to have zis conversation with you, and I see no point in postponing it any longer.”

Scout can’t help but laugh at that, but it comes out hoarse and angry. “Funny, comin’ from the guy who was gonna wait another fuckin’ year.” He points out, again not really thinking, just spewing words out without any filter to speak of.

Spy narrows his eyes, glowering at the boy, which gets the runner to gulp, thoroughly reminded of his Ma whenever he managed to piss her off. “Why are you attempting to avoid zis, Scout?” He asks, his tone no longer angry, just…  _ curious, _ really. “Like it or not, I am your father, and no amount of sleeping will wake you from reality. Zis is it, mon petit lapin, and no matter how fast you may be, not even  _ you  _ can outrun zis,” He then unlocks the door to his study, holding it open for the younger man. “After you, my boy.”

Scout shivers, feeling unnerved by how direct Spy has chosen to be about this, as it seems uncharacteristic of the Frenchman to act this way. Figuring it’s better than Spy beating the shit out of him, or telling him to never speak to him again, Scout bites the metaphorical bullet and steps inside of the room, the deep scent of tobacco making his stomach churn. In all honesty, Scout’s never been in Spy’s smoking room before, despite his interest in setting up a prank in here, as he once overheard Spy more or less rip Sniper a new one for going inside. Although Scout isn’t one to back down from a challenge, especially when it’s one that involves breaking the rules, he knew better than to test Spy’s patience after that. However, now that he’s in here, Scout can’t help but feel surprised by the sight, having expected a Batman-esc secret lair, or walls lined with expensive wines, or even a torture chamber… but no, this place honestly looks like an ordinary library with less tables, a serious lack of lighting, and oh yeah, absolutely nothing that resembles a  _ ‘No Smoking’  _ sign. Still sickened by the stench in here, Scout coughs into his elbow, wincing as Spy puffs out another cloud right next to him.

“It still amazes me zat you are not more accustomed to the stench of tobacco, mon chér,” Spy admits, smirking at the disgusted look on Scout’s face. “As I have said before, I believe your mother was a prevalent smoker, was she not?”

“I mean, yeah, when I was a kid,” Scout says, again coughing, this time into his shirt, unknowingly giving Spy a good look at his binder. “She quit when I was in, say, seventh or eighth grade? Doctor told her it was makin’ her sick as shit, so she spotted cold turkey.”

Spy raises an eyebrow at Scout’s story, choosing not to comment on the binder just yet. “Zen she is an even more powerful woman zan I thought… goddamn, I need to visit her again, especially now zat you know of me.”

“Yeah,  _ about  _ that,” Scout uses the opportunity to ask a few questions that have been plaguing him his entire life. “How the  _ fuck  _ did you two even  _ meet?  _ I get that my Ma is kinda irresistible, ‘cus she’s so awesome ‘n all, but why the fuck did you two hook up?”

Spy sighs, already exhausted by the mere mention of Scout’s origins. “Goddamn, I’m about to regret not getting drunk for zis,” He mutters, then promptly walks over to his armchair and sits down. When Scout just stares at him, as there’s nowhere for him to sit, the Frenchman sighs again. “My apologies; it is not often zat I have visitors, you know.”

“Clearly,” Scout mutters, and rather awkwardly, he decides to sit cross-legged in front of Spy’s armchair, feeling akin to a kindergartner. “So, you gonna tell me a story, Daddy?” He says it mostly to fool around, trying to get a rise out of Spy.

Spy huffs in response, rolling his eyes at the name. “At least call me Papa; it is what you would have called me, had I stayed,” He lies back in his chair now, getting comfortable as he recites his story for his son. “My origins, for now and forever, are unimportant in the grand scheme of things… all you are required to know is zat I was already working as a mercenary when I met your dear mother, and zat I met her of her own accord. You see, while I was not so arrogant in my youth as to promote my services in a public manner, I was not  _ completely  _ unknown to people across ze globe. Your mother, at ze time, was trapped in an abusive marriage with a true  _ brute  _ of a man, and in her desperation to be rid of him, she hired me to assassinate him. She had not a penny to her name, but I still completed ze job, as I could not just leave her without ze thought of her being abused haunting me.”

“Wait, Ma had her last husband  _ killed!?” _ Scout repeats, eyes wide with both surprise and horror. “But she said he was in jail for life, not  _ dead!” _

“She lied,” Spy says in exactly the same way Ma did when she said that Scout’s dad wasn’t really dead, and oh,  _ that’s  _ where she got her ability to lie from… that, or she’d make an even better spy than, well,  _ Spy. _ “I know zat must come as quite ze surprise to you, mon petit lapin, but she is far craftier than she let’s people believe… she seems like just a simple, sweet housewife, does she not? It is all a ruse; zat woman could have killed me if she wanted to, and not a soul would have ever known.”

“Damn,  _ really?” _ Scout tilts his head at the very thought, and while he knows his mother is tougher than she looks, he just can’t imagine her hiring someone to kill an ex-flame, much less killing that ex herself!

“Really,” Spy deadpans, a loose smile on his face when he sees how his story is bringing out the curiosity in his son. “As I was saying, I took ze job, and had her terrible husband dead within ze day. Afterwards, I intended on leaving, but… well, she has quite ze way with words, and as I had nowhere to go at ze time, she allowed me to take refuge on her couch, and eventually, her bed.”

Scout looks away at that, face bright red from the implications. “Yeah, I figured from what Ma told me it was…  _ fast, _ when ya started out.” He doesn’t bother elaborating, as he doesn’t want to, and he knows Spy is smart enough to fill in the blanks for himself.

“Oh, don’t worry, we had  _ plenty  _ of time to play,” Spy doesn’t pull any punches, which unfortunately costs him a baseball hat being tossed at him. He ducks just in time, but when he turns his head to look at Scout, he just…  _ stares, _ like he usually does around Scout. “Oh mon Dieu… forgive me, Jeremy, I just… you look  _ just  _ like me when I was younger, just with brown hair and freckles.”

Scout startles at that, caught off-guard by the comment. “Wait…  _ really?”  _ It seems too good to be true, as unbeknownst to Spy, his face unmasked is what Scout dreams of looking like after several more years on testosterone. “I  _ really  _ look like you? You ain’t jus’ lyin’ to me again?”

Spy’s smile falls, shocked by how heartbroken Scout sounds. “Scout… why are you surprised? You are my  _ son; _ it only makes sense zat we would look alike, oui?” When he’s met with uncomfortable silence, the Frenchman sighs, feeling bad for unintentionally taking their conversation down this path, but it was inevitable. “I suppose I should have asked about zat binder sooner, yes? I know what it is, of course, I simply didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by asking questions about your transition.”

“It’s fine,” Scout says, lying through his teeth. “Not like I ain’t used to gettin’ asked a lot ‘a questions, ya know? Kinda comes with the package deal of bein’ me, I guess.”

Spy gives Scout an uneasy look, as if contemplating on what to say, and it takes several minutes for him to speak again. “Jeremy, you understand zat I was not actually zere for your birth, oui?”

Scout’s eyes widen, taken aback by that. “What? But, in your note to me, it said-”

“-Something went wrong,” Spy interrupts the younger merc, wanting to fill in the blanks himself. “Just a few days before your early birth, I was attacked by one of my many rivals… unfortunately, I could not risk staying any longer, as zat would have endangered not only you, but your mother and siblings as well. So no, I did not get to see you until we met a scant few months ago, mon enfant,” He sighs then, a wetness gathering in his eyes, which is annoying enough to him that he removes his mask again, tossing it aside without much forethought, his depressed state making him not care. “Hell, I didn’t even know what gender you had been born as, but after I first saw your binder… Scout, I’m sorry I wasn’t zere to give you my support sooner, but know zat no matter what gender you may be, you shall always be my child.”

Just like he did when he read Spy’s letter to him three years ago, Scout begins sobbing, and without warning, he throws himself at the older man, not even caring if he accidentally knocks the armchair down in his haste. Luckily for him, Spy must have it nailed to the floor or something, as it doesn’t budge an inch when Scout catapultes into his father’s lap. Deep down inside, the runner is embarrassed to be getting so clingy out of seemingly nowhere, but goddammit, he’s wanted to hug his dad for  _ so  _ damn long, and now that there’s no enemies or teammates to get in the way of that, he sees no need in holding back anymore. Spy, for his part, thankfully doesn’t scold Scout for not being more masculine in this moment; if anything, he seems relieved to be getting another hug from his child, and with as little trepidation as Scout, he wraps his arms around the younger man’s torso, holding him close and securely, as he’s always dreamed of doing. This time around, Scout and Spy are allowed to stay like this for nearly an hour, the two men so touch-starved that they can’t bear to let go. But eventually, even long lost relatives need a break, and slowly, Scout let’s go of Spy’s jacket, which he’d been previously clutching for dear life.

Spy let’s go in turn, realizing right away that Scout is done for the time being. “Thank you for zat, mon fils,” He whispers, smiling kindly at the youth still sitting on his lap. He suddenly pauses though, appearing uncertain again. “My apologies, but what are your-”

“-He/Him,” Scout answers, well aware of what his father was about to ask. Not feeling like getting up, he can’t help but lean back against Spy’s chest, too comfortable to get up just yet. “And yeah, my name’s still Jeremy; you weren’t wrong ‘bout that one, old man.”

“Wait… your name really _is_ Jeremy? Truly?” Spy sounds absolutely  _ starstruck, _ staring at Scout with wide, confused eyes. “But you were not born male, yes? Zen how did you gain ze name zat I intended on giving you?”

Sheepishly, Scout shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, uh… you said in your note ya wanted to name me Jeremy, right? I’ll be honest, I didn’t really like it when Ma told me it as a kid, but after I learned you actually gave a shit about me, I guess…” He sniffs, looking away from the older man. “Well, I guess I jus’ wanted to have a connection to ya, ya know? Didn’t know if you were still alive ‘n all, so I thought, why the hell n-” He’s cut off by Spy abruptly hugging him, which gets a jolt out of Scout. “Whoa, what’s up? Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Spy assures, his face hidden from Scout’s sight as he’s hugged from behind, and judging by the newfound wetness on his back, he has a feeling that whatever he said made Spy begin crying. “Je t'aime, mon fils…”

Scout just sighs, resisting the urge to chuckle for fear of Spy thinking he’s making fun of him. “Yeah, I love you too, Pops.” He mutters, and although he still has a lot of questions, and needs more time to accept that Spy is truly his father, he supposes this is a good enough start.

Jeremy is twenty-one and eighteen hours old, is a transman, has a supportive group of big brothers, an amazing mom, a weird team of mercenaries for a stand-in family, and the most dramatic dad on earth, but he can’t say he wants his life to be any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, this took me three days of off and on writing to finish, but goddamn, it’s done. As usual, I wanted to write a short one-shot, so of course it ends up hitting over 18k. I apologize profusely for my very shitty accents regarding… well, everyone, but I tried my best. I’m also sorry if Scout and Spy are OOC, but come on, I have no time for toxic masculinity when I can have some wholesome, if not complicated, father-son bonding. Anyways, here’s more rambling/easter eggs:
> 
> 1\. I have never played TF2 or read the comics (other than panels where Spy told Scout he was his dad while disguised as Tom Jones) and I'm sorry for that, but at least I've watched all the "Meet The" videos as well as Expiration Date! Maybe once I can stand using a keyboard to play shooters, I'll try finally playing TF2 (or I'll pray that the game allows the use of a plugged in XBOX One controller).
> 
> 2\. Yes, Scout’s crab stuffie is 100% a reference to the SpyCrab plushies on the Valve store, and tbh I’ve been wrestling with myself for days to not impulsively buy it, but… y’all, I think I’m gonna lose this fight. I Want The Crab.
> 
> 3\. Scout’s mom being named Becky is just kinda something I pulled outta my ass, but tbh I love the songs “Becky”, “Jeff”, and “Becky and Jeff Forever” by McCafferty… they’re one of my favorite collections of connected songs, and I can’t stop thinking about them while daydreaming for Spy/Scout’s Ma. So, yeah, my headcanon name for Spy may or may not be Jeffery/Jeff now (until I fall in love with a fanon/canon name for him, of course).
> 
> 4\. All the brothers names were just random as well, mostly just being names I liked/thought would fit that aren’t already being used for any of my OCs. And yes, Timmy is my favorite from the bunch (other than Scout of course), but Grant is a close second because he reminds me of my big sister.
> 
> 5\. So Timmy and Scout coming out together is low-key based off of how me and my older brother both simultaneously came out as trans to our dad, in a Red Robins no less. Our coming out was a bit better than Scout’s, but tbh I was projecting a lot of my fears regarding coming out for the first time onto Scout in the beginning of this fic.
> 
> 6\. I couldn’t get the scene to work/fit, but I almost wrote Scout venting to Pyro about Spy (pre-reveal) in his room, with the context being that after Scout found out Pyro was non-binary, he formed a “Trans Buddy Club” with them, which just consists of Scout spilling the tea for an hour and Pyro encouraging him by clapping/nodding. They’re best friends in this fic/AU, not @ me to bitch about it.
> 
> 7\. I know this fic doesn’t fit the canon reveal At All, but I wanted to do something different/project by transguy angst onto another character that I’ve hyperfixated on. Still, I'm sorry ‘bout how emotional this ended up being.
> 
> 8\. Spy gets pegged, next question.
> 
> Anyways, go to my Tumblr (same username) and bitch to me about Spy!Dad and Trans!Scout please. Thank you for reading this fic, please comment if you enjoyed it!


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